Thomas Wallis, The Life And Times
by Jeaco
Summary: Thomas Wallis is the angel-faced lad from London with one dream. Disappointment after crushing disappointment, writing had gone from his passion to the source of his depression. But will his tale of Will and Grell make it this time?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Small message from author:

Hi guys. This is my first fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy it. I'm basing it around Thomas Wallis, Grell and William from the 6th OVA from the second series. Spoilers are ahead, so if you haven't seen it, go watch it, or this probably won't make any sense and it will also ruin it.

I'm a total sap and didn't like the ending apart from the awesome teamwork from Will and Grell, so I've twisted it a little bit and made it a little more sentimental, if that's even possible, haha. I hope you enjoy it. I'll try to make the chapters a little longer in the future, I just wanted to get this out of the way. Thanks!

* * *

Thomas was in a particularly spritely mood that starry evening. After his encounters with those two slightly eccentric chaps down at the park his inspiration had sparked to a new level, and ideas shone brightly and gorgeously in his mind. He had walked home with a slight bounce in his step, and a smile he couldn't quite remove from his face.

Thomas was young, short, slender and thus – much to his irritation – quite unintimidating. His dishwater blond locks fell over his face and shoulders, strands that had pulled loose from his lazy ponytail fluttering in the breeze at the sides of his face. His eyes, icy blue yet somehow warm and welcoming, were sensitive and glazed over at every chilly blow of the wind. His complexion was pale and faultless, with the exception of scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose.

In brief, he was naturally a little feminine, both physically and mentally. He'd never been into the manual labour that his father had tried to push his only son into, but he'd never responded in the way that his father hoped. Quivering limbs and following aches soon overruled the idea of his future occupation having anything to do with such levels of effort, so instead focused on his only gift; his mind.

Although he wasn't scientifically or mathematically talented, his literary skills were quite phenomenal. He was creative, passionate, emotional and powerful with words, and quickly developed a strange obsession with the hobby. He'd managed to snatch himself a career in the publishing business – with good hours and good pay, at that – and was able to get an idea of what quality of novel would have the honour of publishing.

You see, writing wasn't just a ticket to riches and fame to Thomas Wallis. No, writing was about escape. With just a pen and paper he could forget his scolding father, the beatings, the disappointment, the teasing and the bullying, his features and flaws and all the challenges that faced him in life. A feather dipped in ink enveloped in his hand, he could delve into a magical, mystical world, where everything was simply perfect. In his world, everyone was happy. Everyone worked to get what they wanted, but in the end were always rewarded – it was equivalent exchange, and it was this world's only true policy.

The constant turn-downs from the publishing companies were demons, however. They set him lower and lower each time, bringing him to tears and even thoughts of suicide. It meant so much to him, and all he wanted in this world was to share his ideas and stories filled with hope and happiness with the world.

That was the problem, though. Even though his writing skill was undoubtedly quite beautiful, his actual plots and ideas were rather too avant-garde and radical for London's liking. They turned him away with advice to simplify, to lessen and to water down his thoughts, for in the supposed professional's eyes his stories were complex and bizarre. He didn't believe in catering to the audience, and it annoyed him when people seemed to do so. If he happened to flick through the work of a recently published novel, he found obvious twists, overused storylines, perfect characters and endings so dull that it made him want to tear it to shreds.

But this time, he was going to make it. A plot was forming and moulding into place in his brain as he skipped home. Arranging himself comfortably at his desk, he picked up the feather in his right hand, and began his tale of Will the Reaper.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note:

Hey again :) I'm loving the writing process but I imagine it won't go on for much longer. 5 chapters is my target. I also hope to actually write a one-off of Thomas Wallis' novel 'The Tale of Will the Reaper'. I think that would be really fun to write.

I'll probably do some more on Grell (my love) and perhaps a few one-offs on the Undertaker, Bardroy and perhaps Finnian. I might then move on to OHSHC and maybe some Hetalia.

Hope you enjoy this one. It's longer and it's focused on Grell and Will. Next one will be Thomas again. Thanks~

* * *

The scarlet-haired boy glared down at the little house on the street. Most humans disgusted him, to be honest; the way they'd constantly drink, smoke, destroy their bodies and minds, and worst of all take life for granted. He shook his head at the very thought of them – those types were surely the easiest to get rid of. He didn't understand what the fuss was all about – why on earth would it be rough to witness the deaths of those people?

But this one… yes, he was special. The golden haired and sapphire eyed boy, so fragile and adorable – it was a wonder, with their mutual splendour, that they weren't in some way related.

And he'd called him_ beautiful! _Finally, someone but Grell himself had acknowledged his attractiveness. Grell Sutcliff – crimson haired, porcelain skin… ooh, it made his hairs stand on end reciting those luscious words. Wallis had spoken them in such a genuine manner, his eyes alight and almost glowing. This one was a tricky subject indeed. It would be hard to let him die.

He picked at his red nails and sighed, thinking it over and over. It was a strange feeling, compassion for a human. He almost felt sorry for him. He glanced back down at the house, where he could just make out the boy's figure in the open window; today the mists had filled the streets of London and slightly clouded his viewing. But sure enough, there Thomas was, sat back down at his desk working hit little brain to death.

He sighed again, this time in admiration rather than confusion. Why couldn't more humans be like him? Even after they've had everything they believe in shatter before their very eyes, even after they've been disappointed an unbelievable amount of times, even after they've just been informed they're scheduled to die in a few weeks, they carry on doing what makes them happy, doing what makes them smile and comfortable and contented inside. That's truly something to look up to and respect.

In fairness, Thomas hadn't believed Will when he said he was going to die in the near future. And who could blame him? He was sat on a park bench, minding his own business, when all of a sudden two strangely dressed men had approached him, claiming they're Grim Reapers, and warned him about the nearing end. Naturally, Thomas had seen it logically, and not believed such tall tales. After all, with Grim Reapers looking so convincingly human (with the exception of Grell's blood red hair and overly sharp teeth) it would be difficult to take such declares lightly.

How charming he was, though. And Will wasn't anything less than interesting, either. Unfortunately he hadn't reacted to Grell's persistent insults and demeaning comments in the way that he'd hoped, but that in itself was impressive. How he'd glare silently and sternly, penetrating with those olive eyes...

Grell had always been good at reading people – he'd gotten a lot of practise, with his day-to-day career being watching humans from afar, and Reapers weren't so different – but Will was a prodigy. His body language was seemingly non-existent, and his language and voice was always so neutral and unrevealing. It would be a challenge to get that one to open up.

He'd seen and thought enough – his head was beginning to ache. With a groan he pushed himself up from the uncomfortable tiling of the rooftop he'd been perched on, and stretched out his spine and limbs with a loud yawn. He wasn't exactly difficult to see from afar, with his brightly coloured attire and hair, but he didn't mind terribly if a human caught sight of him. He trusted his instincts and senses – that's what makes a true Reaper.

Will should be back anytime soon, now – or, at least, hopefully he should be. Last time he saw him he was pacing the back alleys of London, checking up on some of the other teams in the area and getting some fresh air. When interrogated why by Grell, he merely replied 'some quiet alone time is required' – what did that mean? Was he implying Grell was noisy? Annoying? How rude.

He did like him playing hard to get though. It made it that bit more fun.

* * *

'So how's it going with your target?' the young blond boy said, smiling gleefully back at William. The grin was not returned.

'Interesting, although I don't believe quite important enough to be considered worthy of the loophole. How about yours?' William T. Spears replied politely, although he knew the yellow haired boy wasn't really listening. He was too busy exchanging glances with the pretty brunette he'd been partnered with, who was busy filing her nails.

'Elderly man, good life and all. Used to be a mechanic. He'll be happy to go,' Ronald said, sounding disinterested, 'probably.'

William simply grimaced in reply. That expression was the most emotion he'd shown all day; he was careful not to let his guard down around Grell. He knew if he let the little red head catch any form of personal opinion he'd probably just be smacked again, or something like that.

'When's his time?' Will asked, peering through the window of the nearby house. His eyes greeted the figure of a man limping to an old armchair and allowing himself to fall upon it.

'Sometime next month. A bit of time to go yet, but Clio and I,' he quickly met eyes with the brunette 'might have to repeat some of the exams. You know, because we didn't really do well in the practicals.'

How easy it would be to make the decision for this man to die, William thought. He'd lived a fulfilling and mildly entertaining life, surrounded by family and friends throughout, and now his time was near. His soul probably wouldn't even struggle on harvesting point.

And then, he continued to think bitterly, there was Thomas Wallis. He was too young to die. Far too young. He'd hardly seen the world and experienced its pleasures, while others had lived four times longer than him and indulged more than they deserved. It simply was not fair.

This boy was promising. His novels were of decent quality already, and with a solid plot accompanying his literary prowess, his work would surely become classics that would inevitably go down in history.

The difficulty that faced him wasn't completely unexpected, but it didn't make sense. He assumed that the soul collection would be difficult as well as the emotional part. It was a test, and if he could let this boy die without letting compassion get in the way, and be able to fight the battle against a prematurely ending soul, that would get him good marks for the examiner.

But it didn't add up. Why and how had Ronald and Clio managed to bag such an easy target, while he and Grell had ended up with this poor lad?

It was sick, he had decided. Sick and disgusting and absolutely awful. Thomas Wallis did not deserve to die, and every part of his body, mind and soul was telling him this. Maybe it was a type of psychological tactic, where the examiners were testing if he was emotionally stable enough to be able to make these decisions.

Oh, so it was all so confusing.

It would probably have helped if he wasn't stuck with an utterly useless partner. How unbearable he was. One minute he was groping him, the next he was beating him round he head with his scythe. If he'd been partnered with someone with at least half a brain cell, maybe he'd be able to talk this predicament through, and come to some sort of conclusion.

Does Thomas Wallis deserve to die? He honestly didn't know…


	3. Chapter 3

Authors note:

Hello! Thanks for reading this far. Shorter chapter but still a solid 1k words, so I'm pleased.

It dawned on me that the previous chapter might have been a little confusing and rambly in parts. I'm a total rambler so if it is long-winded and repetitive, tell me and I'll sort it out. If not, I'll leave it.

Hope you enjoy this one. Flashback time~

* * *

He hugged the papers tightly to his chest and tottered down the alleyway. Dirty, dark and mildly terrifying that alleyway may be, it was a shortcut, and Thomas simply couldn't afford to waste time – not when he was this excited.

The papers weren't anything special at a first glance; yellowish in colour, cheap, slightly torn and rather wrinkled, but they were so much more than that. Inside contained the opening to 'The Story of Will the Reaper', his latest masterpiece. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into that collection of papers, having stayed up all night working on it. His legs quivered uncomfortably as they tried to remember how to walk properly again – after all, he had been sat at that desk for an estimated fourteen hours – which, to his irritation, slowed him down a little bit.

His pace was too fast, too forced, and his body was beginning to suffer for it. If only he was stronger, more athletic, with stamina levels that weren't a complete disgrace. Then again, if his life was based around that, he wouldn't be here today, running to the publishers before they closed to submit his work.

And his work was everything to him, right? This little hobby had become his professional, his passion, his only love. If he'd listened to his father over his mother, he may have ended up looking like a real man, but he wouldn't have been half as happy.

Right?

* * *

'What's that you've got there, son?' the large man said, sinking into his armchair with a sigh.

'Nothing, dad.'

The blond haired boy edged away subtly, slipping his hand into one of his older sister's for protection. Daddy wouldn't dare hit one of his precious girls.

'Nah, come on, what is it?'

'Look, if Thomas doesn't want to show you, he doesn't have to, mate,' the older sister said. Sage was fifteen years old, and had developed quite the mouth. She stood at her full height of five feet ten, just three inches shorter than her father, and clung to her little brother's hand. She was protective of him, perhaps overly, though the five-year-old Thomas didn't mind.

'Mate' raised his eyebrows, and let out a heavy yawn. 'Told you not to call me 'mate', sweetie – it's Dad, okay?'

'Not my fault I've picked it up. Most of the blokes around the workplace call me mate, and you put me into that business,' Sage stood her ground and picked up her brother, wrapping her strong arms around his skinny frame.

He simply laughed in reply. 'Suppose. Go to your room, Sage. I want to talk to the lad for a minute.'

Sage stared at him for a minute, challenging him, questioning him. The eye contact seemed to be the only communication they were making, but it seemed to satisfy Sage after a minute or so. She set down her brother back to the floor, loosening their hand hold, and smiled. From her expression, Thomas was able to work out that everything was going to be okay. This made him relax a little.

He chewed at his thumb, the other hand still gripping the piece of paper he was so partial to.

'Let me see it,' Daddy held out an opened hand, and Thomas obediently dropped it into the palm.

'Good boy.'

Thomas fell to his knees and began to pick at the wooden floorboards in boredom, while his father scanned the page he had demanded.

It was a simple sheet. Over it Thomas had scrawled over a collection of sentences in almost unreadable handwriting. But what he could make out were apparently parts of a story.

Daddy's eyebrow twitched. He'd told him before – he was never become a novelist. Why did he waste his time with this drivel? His daughters all acted like men, tough and loud – they were strong, stronger than most men, actually. Yet his son, his only son, was the only one who acted like a girl. Pathetic. And he wouldn't learn. He never does.

Placing his two fingers in the middle of the sheet, he tore the sheet in two. The halves fluttered to ground.

He stood, towering over the little boy.

He raised a hand and slapped it cleanly across the boy's face. A tear began to swell up in the young boy's eye - a sign of weakness, femininity. He smacked him across the other cheek and walked off, muttering.

* * *

The building was the largest in the area, and probably the most grand. The windows were stained glass and elaborate, and it was up to date with the latest technology. It was a beautiful building, one that Thomas considered to have a love-hate relationship with.

He stepped inside solemnly, trying to withhold his excitement and nerves. The spectacled man behind the counter looked up quickly, but recognised him, and simply got back to work. He knew what Wallis was here for, and whom he wanted to see.

Thomas took a sharp breath, and placed it on the editors' desk.

'I know you're leaving soon,' Thomas said, a small smile appearing on his face, 'but I promise, Sir – this is worth staying for. I'm sure of it.' His blue eyes sparkled and he stepped back, placing himself on one of the chairs nearby. He wasn't going to leave, either.

Two hours later, Thomas stepped out again, unsmiling, still holding the papers to his chest. Suddenly, when the news had finally sunk in, he let a wide grin dominate his petite face, and he let a small, 'finally'.

He laughed a little to himself, a tear rolling down his cheek, and set off home again. Back to work, of course.

He'd shown them all. He'd shown his father and his friends, his sisters, those bullies, those teachers and co-workers. He'd shown practically everybody that had ever walked his path. That sweet, sweet justice felt unbearably good.

And whom did he have to thank? Himself, obviously.

And… those chaps he'd met down at the park. Why, the two he'd based his story on. He'd have to find them again. He needed to say thank you.


End file.
